


In Country

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-18
Updated: 2009-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Afghanistan, not Harvard Yard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Country

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction based on characters in the HBO miniseries.
> 
> Huge beta love to [](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/profile)[**mydocuments**](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/) and [](http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/profile)[**grey_bard**](http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/).

_ Bagram Air Base, 2011_

"Hey, Brad, isn't that your boy?"

"Huh?" Brad was busy unpacking the M22 stowed during their flight back to the base and didn't look where Hasser had pointed. "Who? Is Lovell is over there? I heard tell that we should expect Charlie Company to show their pretty faces this week. The pussies spent an extra month in Italy, doing the fuck knows what at Salerno."

Hasser bit his lip. "No, not that boy. Okay, don't freak out, but Nate's over by the tower. He's talking to Mike."

"Walt, did you get too much sun? Damn it, I told you to stay hydrated. We're Marines, we take care of ourselves as well as others." Hasser had spent too much time with Person in Iraq: every now and then he would try to yank Brad's chain just for the hell of it, though this was a new approach. Points for innovation, even though Brad wasn't about to fall for his shit.

"Jesus, Brad—" Walt was interrupted by Stafford, who had wandered over to where the team was unpacking. "Man, what's Nate Fick doing in Afghanistan? Brad, you got to tighten that leash, yo."

"For fuck's sake, don't you two have better things to do? It's but a distant memory, but I seem to recall when I was a team leader I used to occupy myself with matters directly related to my team, not fucking with my commanding officer, who, if so inclined, could end me, and I don't mean just my career." Brad stood up to better unleash his wrath on the two idiots who were wasting his time—"

And caught sight of a figure he'd know anywhere in the world standing next to Wynn at the tower.

Jesusfuck, did _he_ get too much sun?

"Yo, Walt, I wanted you to take a look at, uh, my after-action report. Now."

"At your rack? Right now? I'm all about that."

Brad barely heard his TLs make their patently false excuses to get away from him as quickly as possible. He was usually pretty quick on the uptake, but for a second it seemed like his head was filled with sand.

He blinked, just to be absolutely certain he wasn't dreaming. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Nate really was standing at the tower, talking to Mike, his back turned slightly away from Brad.

What. The. Fuck.

Mike touched Nate's arm and said something, and Nate turned, looking right at Brad. The motherfucker fucking waved.

Smiled and waved, like Nate was standing at the grill by their pool, and Brad had just pulled into the driveway after a grocery run. The Taliban wasn't going to get a chance to hurt a single hair on Nate's head, because Brad was going to kill him himself.

He didn't wave back. He raised his eyebrows and stared straight at Nate, his look leaving no room for misinterpretation. Not that Nate couldn't tell what he was thinking just by the set of his shoulders. Brad knew that he looked a little intimidating even when he wasn't trying, and right now, he was conveying the full force of his wrath, which was not unsubstantial for a bona fide Recon Marine. He could kill men with his little finger. Most people would shit their pants if he looked at them like this.

Nate's smile morphed into a smirk.

Right. Even on the first day they'd met, Nate had been one of the few people who didn't turn tail when Brad got pissy. There was a reason they were together, after all.

Time to deal with whatever the hell was happening hands on.

He walked over to Nate and Mike's position slowly, taking the time to inhale a few deep breaths. By the time he reached them, he was calm enough to talk, not yell. He didn't yell. Not his style. Or it hadn't been until he started sleeping with the most infuriating man in the world. Now he yelled sometimes, for all the good it did. Nate just yelled back, and the dog started barking and the cat threw up on the rug.

Fucking strays.

Nate started to say something, but Brad raised a hand to check him. Miraculously, Nate obeyed.

Still standing beside Nate, Mike pulled out his dip and popped in a wad, then leaned against the wall like he was settling in for the show. And from the corner of his eye, he could see Hasser and Stafford standing by the company's HQ, doing the same thing. Christ, there were days Brad missed, 'don't ask, don't tell.' At least then he'd had the pretence of privacy. He ignored all of them.

"You had better be about to tell me that you took a wrong turn on the PCH, sir. Or that your plane to DC was hijacked. Or that you ate some of those mushrooms Person left in the guest room the last time he visited and woke up in Kabul," he said, "Something impossible, improbable, unlikely, but nevertheless true. Because there is no good, rational reason for you to be in the middle of a goddamn war zone when, the last time I saw you, you were in Oceanside, in our kitchen, eating your Wheaties like a good boy."

Nate started to talk again, but Brad shook his head. Nate stopped, but this time he glared at Brad, and Brad knew that his time was limited. "And then you had better tell me that you're on the next plane out of this godforsaken country, back home to California, where there aren't fanatics running around with bombs strapped to them, desperate to take even one American life in a storm of buckshot and nails before they achieve that mythical plane of martyrdom. Is that what you're about to say, Nate?" He looked at Nate interrogatively. "Because that's pretty much all I want to hear from you right now. That, and a cheery goodbye as you board that plane home."

"This life is an earthly struggle, Brad, and it's full of disappointments." Mike drawled before Nate could say anything, and Nate, the fucker, cracked up.

His weapon was loaded, and the world would not miss another Texan. If only Brad didn't like the asshole's wife so much.

Mike was still slouched against the wall, grinning, as Nate finally stopped laughing, Brad's death glare having no impact on either of them.

"Fuck, Mike. It's bad enough that he's ready to tear _me_ apart, limb from limb. You really have to stop courting death like this."

"_Nate_."

Nate grinned at him. "Hello, Brad. I'm really glad to see you, too."

Fuck it. He was going to yell.

But before he completely lost his shit, Nate moved closer and squeezed Brad's arm, leaving his hand there. "Talks are about to begin in Bagram between the Afghani government and the Ghilzai, and the State Department asked me to serve as a liaison for the Coalition. They're hoping this will result in a treaty."

Goddamn Clintons. Brad had known that nothing good would come from them, and the Secretary of State had just proved him right about her.

"You couldn't have said, 'No, I'm sorry, I have to stay home with my dog and my cat and my books, because my partner will lose his mind with worry if he sees me wandering around an Air Force base in fucking Afghanistan?'"

Nate looked at him evenly. "You know what I've put into making this happen."

Brad pictured Nate in his study, on a conference call with DC and London and Kabul, still awake since the Afridis collapsed three days before, wan and worn out and not prepared to stop until they'd reached an accord. Sleepless nights, never-ending days, five setbacks for every step forward. Nate pouring over casualty lists published in the _LA Times_, closing his eyes every time he came across the name of another man from Oceanside. Nate could no sooner have turned down this opportunity than Brad could have let his company go on this tour without him.

"I tried to give you advanced notice that I was coming so you wouldn't stroke out, but you were completely unreachable in the field."

Okay. Nate was here, and he wasn't leaving. Brad could accept that. He wasn't happy about it, by any measure, but he'd live with it. After some basic precautions were taken. "The State Department thinks so little of its consultants that it neglects to issue them proper equipment and attire for a combat zone?"

Nate looked at him like he was crazy. "You think I should be wearing a Kevlar and full armor, and carrying an XM8 and my sidearm?"

At the very fucking least, yes.

"Nate, despite the admittedly overwhelming military might currently on the side of the angels in this country, it's still one of the most dangerous places in the world. And you're wandering around in khakis and a button-down like it's Harvard Yard. I'm not outside the bounds of reason here."

Mike coughed and both Brad and Nate looked at him. No armor, no Kevlar, and fucking PT gear, like half the Marines within their immediate vicinity.

Nate just raised his eyebrows and Brad sighed, resisting the urge to shove Nate into his flak vest.

"Right now I'm on the best-protected base in the world, so unless I accidentally trip over a stash of Claymores, I think I'm going to be fine. And I've been assured, despite my protests, that I'll have a full security detail surrounding me if I even look at the gate."

"Jesus Christ." But there was no winning this fight. Nate could have decided to vacation in the goddamn Urals with rebel forces, and if he'd made up his mind, nothing Brad said would change it. And if he didn't want to sleep on the couch for the rest of his life, he'd better step up, here. He shook his head and surrendered. "Welcome to Bagram, sir," he said, pulling Nate in for a hug.

This was apparently the signal that his company had been waiting for, because within seconds Nate was surrounded by every Marine who'd been in Iraq with them, and some who hadn't.

Mike patted Brad on the back. "We'll keep an eye on him. Me, you, the guys. Not one of us is going to let a damn thing happen to him."

Brad nodded. They certainly wouldn't, especially once he talked to the CO and had 1st Recon's orders altered to protection detail and Nate's bunk reassigned.

If there was one thing he was good at, it was watching the man's ass.


End file.
